


A Day In The Life

by scrub456



Series: Essential [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Busking, Depression, Don't stop believing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Gen, Homeless Network, Inspired by Music, John Whump, Journey, References to the Beatles, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Songfic, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5240549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Homeless Network is under attack. Or at least that's how it seems.</p><p>Sherlock decideds to go undercover to solve the mystery. </p><p> </p><p>***Series Notes***<br/>The events of this story begin approximately three months after the events of Chapter 5 of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4399382/chapters/11235073">Crucial</a>. It's not necessary to have read that story to read this one, but therein be history, which is why this story is part of the "Essential" series. I wasn't originally going to do the whole cross-universe thing, but this story has some pretty EPIC friendship-y moments in it, so I'm including it in the "Singular" series as well (this won't happen often, and you won't have to read one or the other of the two to understand what is happening).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day In The Life

**Author's Note:**

> [A Day In The Life](https://youtu.be/usNsCeOV4GM)  
>  The Beatles
> 
> I read the news today oh boy  
> About a lucky man who made the grade  
> And though the news was rather sad  
> Well I just had to laugh  
> I saw the photograph  
> He blew his mind out in a car  
> He didn't notice that the lights had changed  
> A crowd of people stood and stared  
> They'd seen his face before  
> Nobody was really sure  
> If he was from the House of Lords
> 
> I saw a film today oh boy  
> The English Army had just won the war  
> A crowd of people turned away  
> But I just had to look  
> Having read the book  
> I'd love to turn you on
> 
> Woke up, fell out of bed  
> Dragged a comb across my head  
> Found my way downstairs and drank a cup  
> And looking up I noticed I was late  
> Found my coat and grabbed my hat  
> Made the bus in seconds flat  
> Found my way upstairs and had a smoke  
> And somebody spoke and I went into a dream
> 
> I read the news today oh boy  
> Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire  
> And though the holes were rather small  
> They had to count them all  
> Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall  
> I'd love to turn you on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Don't Stop Believing](https://youtu.be/VcjzHMhBtf0)  
>  Journey
> 
> Just a small town girl  
> Livin' in a lonely world  
> She took the midnight train goin' anywhere  
> Just a city boy  
> Born and raised in south Detroit  
> He took the midnight train goin' anywhere
> 
> A singer in a smoky room  
> A smell of wine and cheap perfume  
> For a smile they can share the night  
> It goes on and on, and on, and on
> 
> Strangers waiting  
> Up and down the boulevard  
> Their shadows searching in the night  
> Streetlights, people  
> Living just to find emotion  
> Hiding somewhere in the night
> 
> Working hard to get my fill  
> Everybody wants a thrill  
> Payin' anything to roll the dice  
> Just one more time  
> Some will win, some will lose  
> Some were born to sing the blues  
> Oh, the movie never ends  
> It goes on and on, and on, and on

The Homeless Network was under attack.

If Sherlock were to pin down a single instance the trouble had started, (and he had to; he found his mind wouldn't allow him to _not_ suss out a timeline, to the exact moment), he would say it was the day six months ago that Lil Sis had peeked out from behind the skip in that alley.

But if Sherlock were to be _completely_ honest, the trouble actually started much earlier than that.

John spotted her first.

Sherlock had been absorbed with the bodies and the evidence, dumbing down his deductions for Lestrade, and putting Anderson in his proverbial place. John had been doing what he always did -- staying out of Sherlock's way, and observing. Military training, John supposed. No matter where he was, he made a habit of knowing every single entrance and exit, and observing every single person who came or went.

That John was even present added to the exceptional nature of the instance in question.

John hadn't been to a crime scene in nearly three months. 83 days, to be precise. Not that anyone could fault him. Not even Sherlock. Having lived through addiction, depression, self loathing, and two and half years of pretending to be dead while facing Moriarty's network _alone,_ those particular 83 days were still the darkest of Sherlock's life.

It had been only 83 days since Mary was murd... ki... _taken_ from John. From them. (Sherlock couldn't bear the other words. _Sentiment,_ yes. But _true_ all the same.) 83 days since John had been stalked, hunted, and shot full of large game pellets by a disgruntled ex-marine with a 12-gauge shotgun. 76 days since Sherlock and Greg had, out of necessity, buried Mary two plots over from Sherlock's own burial site, as John lay in hospital fighting infection and too drugged to remember how to mourn properly. 62 days since John, or rather, the shell of a man who looked hauntingly like John, returned to 221b Baker Street. 62 days since Sherlock, Greg and Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and even Sally Donovan, had agreed on a rotation, to make sure John was never alone; a suicide watch they called it. 34 days since John's last physical therapy session -- he had promised, as a doctor himself, that he understood the importance of continuing the exercises on his own, and had largely stuck to the regimen. 16 days since John had thrown Greg out of the flat with colorful, curse laden, diatribe reminiscent of the John... before... 16 days since John had assured Sherlock he didn't need a bloody babysitter, and he didn't need the sodding pain pills, and if he didn't get away from the flat soon, _he_ was going to blow up the microwave. 16 days since Sherlock had acquiesced with a wary smile, and the conditions that John _wean_ himself off the pain meds, and start slowly with a short walk to the corner and back. Five days since John had last taken any pain medication at all, including the cheap over the counter stuff. 2 days since John had decided he was ready to attend a crime scene.

All things considered, this case seemed safe enough for John's first time back. Two homeless men, both early twenties, found dead in an alley. Signs of an altercation, specifically, hand-to-hand combat. Upon initial inspection, it appeared the two men had beaten each other to death. There were no gunshot wounds that could elicit any traumatic memories, and no risk of someone lurking in the shadows, waiting for another victim. Greg figured it was a two at the _very_ most, and almost didn't make the call. Sally was actually the one who pointed out that one, or both, of the young men might have been involved in Sherlock's Homeless Network, and perhaps, just as a courtesy, and just this _one_ time, maybe they should call him in.

Sherlock thanked Sally and Greg for the kindness the only way he knew how. He determined that neither victim was a member of his network, and that both men had, in fact, been murdered. Clearly it would have been impossible, based on the bruises and abrasions, the blood pool, the scuff on one ragged trainer, and the way a jacket had fallen open, for the men to kill each other simultaneously. With an encouraging nod Sherlock had ushered John over to the bodies, and after a very tentative, yet thorough (always thorough), examination, the doctor confirmed Sherlock's conclusion. The two men _had_ been beaten to death, but not by each other.

And suddenly, a nice, quiet, _safe,_ two was designated a four with the definite potential for growth.

Sherlock hummed with giddiness as he traipsed up and down the alley.

John stood at parade rest, near enough to keep an eye on Sherlock, but with enough distance to provide the best vantage point of the entire alley. His position also allowed him to preserve his waning strength. _God._ Even with the exercises and the walks, after three months away from the game entirely, John admitted to himself it was possible he was out of shape. He mumbled a quick supplication to whatever deity happened to be nearest that he wouldn't be called upon to follow Sherlock on a mad foot chase across the city.

Ha. While the universe is rarely lazy, as Mycroft was always so quick to declare, apparently it frequently had a sense of humor. A sick, sadistic, twisted sense of humor that it took great pleasure in inflicting on one John Hamish Watson.

The moment John's plea left his mouth a brief flash of blonde from around the side of a skip caught his attention. With a growl and an eye roll tossed heavenward, John glacially made his way over, so as to avoid spooking whoever was hiding back there, and to keep from drawing anyone else's attention. As he drew nearer he heard a sniffle and a soft rustle of fabric.

"Hello?" John's voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm not going to hurt you, I just want to check to make sure you're okay. I'm a doctor." He took a small step closer.

And then it all really went to hell.

Lestrade had glanced around and noticed that John seemed to be making an inquiry to a skip, which had, he thought, seemed rather odd. "John? You find something over there?" The D.I. shouted.

John looked back over his shoulder in time to see Sherlock's head snap up from the invisible-to-everyone-but-consulting-detectives evidence he was crouched over. It took John perhaps a moment longer than necessary to register that Sherlock's eyes had widened in surprise and that he had started to stand. Turning back, John came face to face with a bundle of purple and blonde being launched from behind the skip.

The largish rock gripped tightly in grubby fingers with jagged dirty fingernails smashed into the side of his face before he even had time to respond.

The shock of the blow only served to bring John's senses to high alert. He heard Sherlock shout, and a rush of feet charged in his direction. The small person in front of him was tense, ready for a fight, but John had the suspicion that fear was the driving force. He didn't see any sign of a weapon beyond the rock. With a deep breath he took the risk, and lunged at his attacker just as the small person moved to swing hard at him again. He wrapped his arms tightly, and a bit awkwardly, around his aggressor's middle, pinning both arms down; with a grunt he lifted them a few inches off the ground.

 _They,_ it turned out, was a teenage (fifteen, John surmised) _she._ A surprisingly strong and scrappy _she,_ who, for her size, clawed, elbowed, bit and kicked, not to mention cursed, as well as anyone John had ever tried to subdue. So well, in fact, that there were a few moments, right before she slumped in defeat, that John actually thought she was going to outlast him.

Sherlock had charged to John’s aid, Lestrade and a dozen officers close behind, only to have John hold up one hand and shake his head. "Everyone stay back. She just needs some space, yeah? Greg, is Sally around? Maybe have her come over here." He made eye contact with Sherlock. "I'm fine, Sherlock." The consulting detective scoffed, but John saw a bit of tension ease from his friend's face.

"Okay... You're okay." John whispered to the bundle of blonde hair and nerves in his arms. "If I put you down, are you going to hit me again?" A tiny voice mumbled something unintelligible. "Sorry? I didn't hear that."

"Maybe," the girl declared with a bit more boldness as she struggled against John's hold. She slumped against him again when he barked a surprised laugh.

"Oh, Sherlock. You're gonna like this one. She's got an attitude." John chuckled and didn't loosen his grip. "Here's what we'll do," relying on his soothing doctor voice, John spoke to the girl as if there was no one else around. "I'm gonna set you down, and you're _not_ gonna hit me. I'm not too fond of that. And you're not gonna run either. That nice lady officer, her name is Sally, and I will check and make sure you're not hurt. You'll tell her what you saw. And then my friend Sherlock, that tall bloke over there, is gonna get you dinner from Angelo's. You like Italian? How does that sound?"

“I like Chinese.” The voice was small, but clear. John understood immediately this point would be non-negotiable.

“Chinese is my favorite too.” John kept his tone light. “I’m going to let you go now, yeah? No one here is going to hurt you.” Lowering the girl to stand on her feet, John was hesitant to release her entirely, for fear she would make a run for it. With slow, deliberate movements, he took one step, and then another, back from her, keeping his hands near her shoulders, just in case. She stood very still, and kept her head down.

"All right?" John asked, though he didn't expect a response. To his surprise, the girl nodded slightly, and emerald eyes, alarming in their luminous intensity, stared up at him through the blonde tangled fringe obscuring most of her face.

Motioning to the medics, Lestrade spoke up. "John, you really ought to..." He was cut off by a startled cry. At the very moment the D.I. spoke, Sherlock and Sally, in an unprecedented moment of synchronicity, moved to approach John, Sherlock to his left, in order to inspect the wound on the side of his face, and Sally to his right, in order to make herself visible to both John and the girl. With a dexterity afforded only the very young, the frightened girl escaped John's reach, ducked behind him and leapt onto his back. With her left arm wrapped firmly (surprisingly so) around John's neck, and a knee pressed to the small of his back, she brought the rock up in her right hand.

Everyone froze, stunned at the absurd turn of events, and the even more ridiculous sight before them. John swallowed hard, and maintained his breathing. "Okay. Uhm..."

"Tell 'em to go 'way." The tiny voice had become demanding and steady.

"Sally, everyone, back up a bit, yeah? Sherlock, you too." John's tone was even, if slightly annoyed. He was already exhausted, and though the added weight of the girl was negligible, he just didn't have it in him to keep this up much longer. "If they back up, can we talk? Just you and me."

"No coppers?"

John exhaled deeply and rolled his eyes. Sherlock smirked and cocked an eyebrow. A power play, very nicely done. "Sure, yeah. No coppers." Lestrade sighed in frustration.

"Do I still get Chinese?"

Biting back his ire, John forced as near a pleasant, "Of course" as he could muster.

With her rock hand, the girl pointed to a corner of the alley. It was a good distance away from the group of officers watching them, and near enough a main road that she could make a break for it if need be. "Over there. Just you. No one else."

"Can someone at least bring me a first aid kit, so I can check to make sure you're not injured?"

The diminutive captor paused to consider her options. "The tall one with the coat. But he can't stay." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest with a huff, clearly put out. John glared his most threatening Captain glare, and Sherlock turned on his heel to fetch the first aid kit from the medics who were standing by.

"All right, fine." John stood very still for a moment. "So... Are you going to get down, or are you going to make me carry you over there in front of God and the entire MET?"

"Just walk." The girl dug her knee more forcefully into John's spine, causing him to grimace at the twinge of pain. When Lestrade stepped toward him, concern etched on his face, John shook his head to say "no" and started to take a step forward. He faltered just slightly, and righted himself immediately. It was more embarrassing than anything, but as quickly as it happened, Sherlock was at his side.

"All right, John?"

"Oi! You, back off!" The girl shouted at Sherlock, causing the dull ache in John's head to throb a little more insistently. John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, but kept walking, deliberately slow. If he leaned slightly on Sherlock's arm for support, no one seemed to notice.

"Lower your voice," Sherlock hissed. "It's entirely possible you've given _Doctor_ Watson here a concussion, and I'm sure your screeching like a harpy is cause for severe discomfort. Not to mention the dizzying effect caused by the lack of oxygen thanks to your choke hold, and the considerable pain I'm certain your boney knee pressed into the nerves of his lower back is inflicting." He levelled his icy, calculating, deduction-mode glare at her and opened his mouth.

"Sherlock, not now." John cut him off.

With a sigh, Sherlock turned a questioning look to John's solemn face. Oh. John had his tight lipped, lopsided, devious smile on. _OH._ Sherlock nodded slightly.

"If you want to eat, my friend here stays with me." John stated. "This is not up for discussion."

Digging her knee in once more, almost causing John to stumble to his knees, the girl finally dropped to the ground. "Fine!" She stomped over to a pile of crates and flopped down on one.

Muttering a string of profanities and releasing the grip he'd had on Sherlock's forearm, John sat cautiously on another crate so that he was practically knee to knee with the girl. He held his hand out to Sherlock, who blinked in confusion. "Gloves, Sherlock."

"Right." Sherlock opened the kit, and pulled out the rubber gloves. Anticipating John's next move, he held the pack of antiseptic wipes at the ready.

"What's your name?" John asked as he inspected the girl's left hand and wrist, cleaning the area with a wipe. He sounded conversational, but Sherlock could tell it was forced.

The girl bristled at the question, and snatched her hand away.

"I guess she must not be hungry, John." Sherlock shrugged and moved to start packing up the kit. John stood as he started to remove his gloves.

"Wait! _Wait._ " The girl cried, and then noticing the growing bruise on the side of John's face, she lowered her voice. "Lil Sis. My name is Lil Sis. Sometimes they call me Lil. Or Sis." She ducked her head.

"Put down the rock. I'm not going to hurt you." John instructed, he'd reassumed his calming doctor tone. "Please." Furrowing her brow, the girl placed the rock next to her feet and held her hand out for John to inspect it. "Thank you. I see some blood here," John wiped and prodded gently. "Oh, never mind, it's all mine." He managed a chuckle. Sherlock growled behind him, and a look of genuine guilt crossed the girl's face.

When he finished with her hands, John explained that he was going to check her neck and head, since she had tried to headbutt him a few times. She just nodded shyly and sat very still.

"Is Lil Sis your _real_ name?" John asked softly, as he continued his examination.

"Only name I ever had," she shrugged. John and Sherlock exchanged a glance.

"You've been on the street your whole life?"

"Mum died when I was born. Her sister took me and my brother in for a while, but it got too hard for her. Or that's what Joey always said. One night, he bundled me up, and we left. He took real good care of me." Lil Sis ducked her head again, and covered her face with her hands.

"Joey's your brother?" John asked. She nodded, but didn't look up. "Is he..." John looked over his shoulder at the two men lying in the alley, and then up at Sherlock. "Oh God." The consulting detective dropped the first aid kit, and dashed back to where Lestrade stood watching Anderson work over the bodies.

"Lil, I need you tell me what you saw." John gently lifted her face toward him, and pulled her hands away, to reveal the tears streaking down her filthy face.

"Joey... Joe and that other bloke... He said they were meeting someone. They were getting paid for a job. He told me to hide, and to stay back, no matter what." She sobbed then, and let John pull her into a protective hug.

"Do you know what the job was?"

Lil shook her head "no" and looked up at John. "Never seen the other bloke before. When the men came... There was shouting, and..."

"Other _men?_ How many, Lil? Did you recognize them?"

"There were three. I didn't know 'em. But..." She looked over John's shoulder to where her brother's body was being loaded onto a gurney and shuddered. Her voice was just barely a whisper. "They were coppers."

John blanched. "You're sure?"

"I know a bloody copper when I see one!" Lil hissed.

John cursed under his breath. "Sorry... sorry." He apologized to the girl. "Look, sit up, okay?" John nearly shoved the girl back to her own crate. "We shouldn't do this here. It might not be safe. Can you read?"

Lil frowned, but nodded slightly. "A little."

John dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out all the cash he had, and a small card. "My phone number and my... our..." he motioned back to Sherlock. "This has our address on it. Can you read that?" He held it up for her.

"Baker Street?"

"Right. Good, very good." John wrapped the card in the money, and thrust the bundle into Lil's hands. "Hide it. Now." He looked back at Sherlock who nodded discreetly. Turning back to Lil, John acted like he was going to continue his examination. "Open your mouth, yeah? Just so it looks like I'm checking you over." Grabbing a swab from the kit, John collected a quick DNA sample, and continued his instructions in a low tone. "Go to that address at 7:00 tonight. 7:00. Got it?" Lil nodded in understanding.

"Okay, now this is where it gets... weird. Pick up your rock." John waited for the girl to comply. "You keep that with you, no matter what, yeah? You're very good with it." He winked at her, to put her at ease, though she looked very confused. "I want you to hit me again. Really go at me, make 'em believe it."

Lil gasped. "I... I can't. I won't. You... You're helping me. I can't..."

"I was trying to help you earlier, and you had no problem with it then." John laughed. "Look, I'm trying to give you a way out. Hit me, you make a run for it, and they're all too distracted to care. Just, try to avoid the nose, yeah?" Lil stared at him, wide eyed and unsure. "I trust you." John smiled at her. He looked back over his shoulder again, and Sherlock started walking toward them. "Remember, 7:00. Baker Street..." As John turned back to look at Lil, his face met the business end of her rock.

Clutching his face, and bellowing a string of curses (because a rock to the face bloody well hurts, even if it _is_ planned), John made a show of trying to stand to go after Lil, and stumbling to his knees. She didn't look back as she dashed into the busy street and out of sight. A moment later Sherlock was knelt over John, shielding him from Lestrade and the other officers who were charging in their direction.

"Three men. They were police." John whispered into Sherlock's shoulder, then shouted a few obscenities to really sell it. Whispering again, John added, "7:00, Baker Street. And I got DNA." Sherlock huffed a laugh, and then schooled his features into detached rage as he dragged a woozy John to his feet. Greg was at John's other side then, helping Sherlock get him to the medics. "Sor... sorry Greg. I... She didn't..."

"Bloody hell, John. Just let the medics stitch you up. Let us worry about her, yeah?" Once John was settled in the back of an ambulance, Greg jogged off to where Sally was giving instructions to a small group of officers at the far end of the alley.

John let the medic check him for a concussion, and then looked over at his flatmate. "Not a word."

Sherlock shrugged. "Whatever do you mean, John? Surely you weren't expecting me to point out the fact that you were beat up by a little girl. _Twice._ I would never do that to you."

John groaned. "Oh God. You're not going to let this go, are you?" 

Sherlock winked and grinned. "Fancy a take away? I'm thinking Chinese."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it wasn't until _after_ I posted this chapter that I realized people might think John and Lil are going to have some sort of weird hook-up. NO. Just, _no._ I don't want to give anything away, but rest easy, this is not _that._
> 
> Also, I am in no way trying to make light of police brutality, or the necessary role of the police. You'd be hard pressed to find someone who supports our boys in blue more than I do. Keep in mind, this is a work of fiction, and to that end, I usually tend to make things go a bit twisty before it all ends anyway. Fear not. This is also not an anti-police story.

**Author's Note:**

> My outline for this story is only two, _maybe_ three, chapters at the most, but I'm not going to lock in that final chapter count, just in case inspiration takes hold. You know how it is.


End file.
